


Rememory

by oftheashtree



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Memory Alteration, Sad, could be seen as Johnlock, just warning you now, not a satisfying ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:57:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftheashtree/pseuds/oftheashtree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up to a cold flat and a colder floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rememory

**Author's Note:**

> Memory loss.

Lights streams in through his window. It’s morning. He doesn't notice, though. His eyes are still shut and his mind unaware of the waking world around him. Blissful. That’s how he’d describe his night’s rest if he was conscious of it. For the first time in a long time, he isn’t plagued by nightmares or memories of what was.

He is snuggled in a nest of blankets. His flat is cold, the floor is colder. He dislikes the feeling against the bottom of his feet. He could solve his discomfort by wearing socks to bed or keeping slippers on the floor, but he gets too warm and he doesn’t like slippers. He settles for the brief moments of cold feet. 

He doesn’t check his blog, and he doesn't pick up his gun and feel the weight of it against his palm. He doesn’t know why he has the silly thing; it could probably go off if he isn’t careful with it. He prefers to leave it be. 

He goes for a run. He eats a hardy breakfast. He showers and dresses in a nice pair of slacks and a dress shirt and tie. He whistles as he drives to work. He greets the patients waiting in the waiting area. 

His day is full of the routine: three patients have the common cold, two have the flu, one has very mild pneumonia, four have an infection of some sort, and over ten come in with allergy complaints. He mostly prescribes rest with a helping of orange juice and maybe some vitamins.

He leaves the same way he arrives, whistling and happy.

He doesn’t think of long nights or heads in the fridge or experiments spread across the kitchen table. He doesn’t remember unruly black hair or a piercing gaze. He doesn’t ache for the strains of an expertly played violin. 

He stops at the bank on his way home, then he grabs take away from his favorite Italian place. He doesn’t remember why he likes the owner or the corner booth that has an excellent view of the street outside, but he likes them nonetheless. 

He has to nudge his front door shut with a foot as he makes his way into the flat because his arms are full of Italian food. It’s still cold. He doesn’t change into a soft pair of jeans and a jumper, and he eats alone at his table.

The table is metal. Sterile. The neuro-eraser had suggested it. He’d suggested a lot of things actually. He told John to leave London, to find a nice flat, and to fill it with mostly chrome and black and white. Apparently, the old John – the one that still had those awful memories – had liked soft colors. Creams, browns, burnt oranges. You should always try to be as different as possible from the person you were before, the neuro-eraser had said. It was to prevent any triggers that might still be embedded in John’s subconscious. 

He’d taken every bit of the neuro-eraser’s advice – except the part about leaving London. London felt like home, even after the memory wipe, and John couldn’t fathom leaving it.

He finishes the meal and wipes down the table, though it is spotless. He tidies his small home cheerfully. He has a bookshelf filled with self-help books that he dutifully dusts off. He considers that the flat feels very empty and thinks again that he might like a small pet. A fish, maybe, or a cat. 

He’s just about ready to change into pajamas and slip into bed when there is a knock at the door. 

It’s a stranger. He is tall and pale. His hair is black and curly and his eyes; oh, his eyes are a kaleidoscope of color – blues and greens and greys and even a smattering of gold. He’s clad in a black coat, a blue scarf. There are bags under his eyes, and he looks world weary. John wants to refer him to the neuro-eraser. 

“John,” the man rasps. His voice is rough and low. 

“Hello.” John says cheerfully. “Do I know you?”

John can’t be sure because he doesn’t know this man, but he thinks that he may have just seen something break in the man’s eyes. 

The man’s jaw moves silently for a moment, he’s trying to find words. 

“No.” The man gasps like he’s in pain. “No, you don’t. I’ll – “ He chokes on nothing, “I’ll be leaving. I’m sorry – I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“No problem, mate,” John says graciously. The man seems to be stuck in place, so John bobs his head in dismissal and shuts the door. He can’t afford to stand around all night. He’s got work in the morning, after all.


End file.
